


A Certain Band of a Certain Name

by Saturniidae



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Song Lyrics, This is a Rewrite of an Old Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23869780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saturniidae/pseuds/Saturniidae
Summary: He’s only here to see what sort of band formed by a classical music and analytical chemistry double major would even begin to sound like. He’s pretty sure that sort of contrariness kills people.
Relationships: Fay D. Fluorite/Kurogane
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	A Certain Band of a Certain Name

**Author's Note:**

> (I see where AO3 stands on how to spell Fai/Fay lol) 
> 
> This needs a bit of exposition to explain what it's doing out and about on the internet. I talk a little more about it on [writing tumblr here](https://saturniiddae.tumblr.com/post/616575733409644544/once-upon-a-long-long-time-ago-i-wrote-a-fic) (it's very long and personal), but here's the short of it: 
> 
> Once, upon a long long time ago, I wrote a fic that was a uh, well it was a doozy of a fic, cram-slammed with fic cliches and every spare bit of angst that could be shoved into a fanfiction. 
> 
> This sort of came from the idea of "Well, what would it look like if I wrote it now, at age 28?" and the idea that there's really no wide-spread 'do it again' meme for writing as there is for art. 
> 
> So twelve years, many many many fics, and usernames later, I decided to re-write a pretty integral scene, keeping the thematic elements of the original, but with scenarios and ages that I would write now, as an older author. 
> 
> The name of the band will not be used because... Wow. Boy. Boy howdy. I did that. Go me. Yike.  
> Songs are linked in text.

The uneven, tacky ink dries on his wrist, and his feet stick to the floor as he trods down the stairs, wind cold at his back, setting him up for an evening of deep discomfort.

He looks around him, taking in the shift from white-orange light from the small lobby to the plunge into relative darkness mid-way down the stairs. Everything in the venue is colored blue in the semi-darkness, smoke curling out from the stage as lights slowly shimmer through it like the sun through water.

There are can lights to the side, stark white and lighting up three rickety tables, the sort that break down and wobble after one use. Only one table is stocked and manned—the one farthest from the door and closest to the dark curtains that lead backstage. It’s also the smallest and probably the one in the worst shape of the three. As he advances towards it, he can see where the laminated wood is bubbly underneath black velvet runners. Doumeki raises a hand in greeting.

Kurogane really hasn’t talked to Doumeki much since high school, and the fact creeps under his skin, making him prickle with awkwardness.

This isn’t his scene, hell, he’s never even been to a club before despite living right across the street from one. He’s not even dressed like he belongs. Everyone’s either done up in clothes like they’ve walked out of a Hot Topic circa 2006, in elaborate clubbing clothes that scream that this will not be the only haunt of the night, or like they walked out of Hipsters United.

And here he is, in his team sweatshirt and a (mostly) clean pair of jeans. He briefly wonders who these people are showing off for, who they’ve come to see. It isn’t any of his business anyhow; he’s not much of a people watcher anyway, but he does like to scope out places before settling into them.

He doesn’t know who else is even playing the venue. He’s done next to zero research about this place at all: All he knows is that it was near impossible to say no to his idiotic lab partner and he really does want to pass organic chem this time through so he can move along with his degree. (He also knows that he didn’t really want to say no at all, but he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself if he can help it.)

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and steps up to the tables.

“Yo,” Doumeki says, setting down his tablet.

Something about seeing him with a tablet is incongruous with the idea of Doumeki Kurogane has in his mind, but that’s only because his only interactions with him were during tournaments. It’s this acute realization that makes the scene stand out more, crisp edges in his vision, just like it gets before a match. His brow furrows as his mouth dries and he stuffs his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.

There’s a couple of plastic-wrapped CDs spread before him, along with a handful of buttons and screen-printed canvas totes. They’re piled behind Doumeki in a painfully small cardboard box; the band has no grand dreams of how much they’ll sell tonight.

“You wanna go back?” Doumeki asks without preamble, jerking his head towards the curtain.

Kurogane thinks about it, and about the piece of paper he had to hand over, the reluctance he felt about parting with it. The urge that drew him here, to this dark cement and wire building that smells like fake smoke, weed, and beer.

He can see a ramp behind the curtain, and behind it, an open garage-like door. If he catches a glimpse of platinum blond hair, he doesn’t let it affect his answer—he’d made his choice when he decided to go, to be a part of the crowd instead of slinking backstage. He can at least control a bit of his surroundings like this, so he buckles down and shakes his head.

(It’s important that he knows where the exit is, if he needs it. Something-something-hypervigilance, he’d been told. He just says crowds make him tetchy.)

“Nah,” Kurogane says, watching workers mill back and forth behind the curtain.

Doumeki just nods. “Enjoy the show.”

“Yeah,” Kurogane mutters. He curls his hands in his pockets, slouching over to the rickety-looking barricade. There doesn’t even seem to be any use for it—it’s barely a foot from the stage. If someone wants to jump the stage, they’ll do it in a heartbeat.

It seems like a stage-jumping place. It makes him uneasy; it makes his palms itch, but it’s just a cement box of a bar, not some big name venue. There’s no reason to let his mind jump, skip, hop like it does when he feels trapped. The exit is behind him, straight back. He isn’t trapped.

He can see the electricians tape marking tidy squares, pedals and wires bursting in a mess of bright-colored cords and taped numbers. The stage is packed three-layers deep with instruments, a crowded mismatch of soundboards and computers and guitars. The lights cycle through, and someone comes out and starts speaking into the mics, finger pressed to an earpiece, eyes fixed somewhere in the back of the cavernous room.

Kurogane cranes his head back and looks up at the metal-mesh railing of the balcony. He jolts, locking eyes with a figure leaning over the backmost section of the balcony, bright hair shining as the lights swirl through the room on a test run.

Fai raises a hand with ease and in the bright spotlight, Kurogane can’t quite make out the motion on his face, but instinct tells him that Fai just _winked_ at him. Irritation wells in him and he rolls his eyes, turning stubbornly back to the stage.

There’s a loud cabbie whistle, and when Kurogane whips around, Fai’s fingers are leaving his mouth. That smug son of a—Kurogane knew he’d been lying because what sort of music major can’t _whistle_ , especially one that carries _reeds_ with him, even if they are to sell like bubblegum out of a backpack.

Kurogane hopes his scowl looks as pissed as he feels, but Fai only waves as the rest of the slowly gathering crowd turns, heads craned back in collective intrigue. Fai grins and pushes off the railing, turning back into the darkness.

Behind him, someone makes an awed sound, their voice overly loud to Kurogane. “Look,” they whisper, “It’s the-the guy--!”

“Who?”

“The first opener, I looked them up online, they’re just on, on like, bandcamp. They have this, like, the sound is very—”

Kurogane bites on the inside of his cheek, feeling his neck flush hot for some indiscernible reason. It feels a bit like intruding, listening in on the group behind him. Soon, there’ll be too many people to hear them at all, but for now, he’s interested in what they have to say, even if they are very obviously already drunk.

He didn’t think to look up Fai and his band—it felt weird, especially since he was failing chemistry with the dude as his singular hope at a passing grade, and that he’d gone to high school with most of them. Hell, he practically grew up with Sakura, considering she and Tomoyo are inseparable. He doesn’t want to Google someone who’s basically his little sister.

Also he’s pretty sure the name Fai gave him for the band was a joke.

“In any case,” the person continues, “he’s _hot_.”

“You’re so thirsty, jeeeesh. He looks like a twink.”

Kurogane almost chokes on his own spit, because, well… they’re not _wrong_. Not if that brief five minutes behind the library is anything to go by: Thin hands, cool fingers, and that earnest flushed smile—he shakes the thought away.

It’s not why he’s here, not at all. It had nothing to do with the ticket Fai had pressed into his fingers after, cheeks flushed pink as he grinned and curled his fingers around Kurogane’s. (They were supposed to be talking about the midterm.) He’s only here to see what sort of band formed by a classical music and analytical chemistry double major would even begin to sound like. He’s pretty sure that sort of contrariness kills people.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket and opens up the most boring game he has, flicking his thumb to fit numbers together in their little pink and green square tiles. He gives in after a few minutes, because he’s been playing the game for years and never won. He opens up Tomoyo’s last message.

_You know your friend’s in a band?_

Tomoyo’s text is almost instant.

_I did their graphics, yes! They’re playing tonight!_

And then, another:

_How do you know?_

Music kicks in around him, the volume rising until it can be heard over the gathering chatter of people. The space around him slowly closes in, and he amuses himself with his phone until the dim-lighting grows dark. Tomoyo seems amused that he’s at the venue, waiting to see ‘Sakura’s band’ play—she sends way too many emojis for his liking when he mentions Fai, so many in fact, it seems like she just smashed the phone screen. Why else would she send him an eggplant?

The people around him start to cheer, and a slow chill crawls across Kurogane’s neck.

The stage lights go up, a wash of blue and white as four people walk on stage.

They fan out, and it’s so strange to see them take their places. He _knows_ these people. Syaoran, at the drums; Watanuki, all long limbs as he shrugs the strap of his bass over his shoulder; Sakura behind the soundboard and keyboard combo, in some outfit that Kurogane is sure Tomoyo made; and then Fai, guitar in hand and foot already on a pedal as he takes the center.

A beat starts up behind him as he clears his throat. “So we’re the opener’s opener, a local band with a joke for a name, we hope you enjoy.”

He steps back as a baseline starts to roll with the drums and trackpad, then leans forward, mouth to the mic.

_“[Best of luck, don’t run amok, we all get tongue-tied](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BRDJt6l_7ac&feature=youtu.be)—”_

Sakura backs his vocals, the two of them mixing into an echoing harmony that hushes the crowd; Kurogane watches as Fai fingers the frets on his guitar, the sound liquid and burning in his ears.

“ _My sun-dried baby, permanently limp Quiet restraint takes such accomplishment This airtight framing crutch analogy Quiet restraint takes all the best in me—”_

He watches as Fai commands attention with his voice, his hands, his body. People watch, rapt as they raise their phones up to snap pictures, videos. Some of these people have heard of them, sure, but most of them have never heard of them until Fai started singing. That sort of crowd control is… amazing. .

Kurogane shifts his weight, craning his neck to watch as Sakura leans up to her mic, fingers on the keyboard, as Fai steps back, and her voice cuts through the crowd even as a cheer goes up as she starts to belt out a coda.

_“Who's to say that you won't find love again, Who's to say that you won't find love? Who's to say that you won't find love if I cut off my hands and make you clean it up?”_

“Wow, they’re actually good,” he hears someone say next to him as the song crescendos.

“What the hell do you expect?” their friend snorts. “They won some local competition to play tonight!”

Kurogane knows jack shit about music, other than it exists, and that he can be sent to a near murderous rage when the same pop forty song plays ten times in his six hour shift at the campus bookstore.

He’s inclined to agree that not only the award, but the band, are impressive.

“ _Who’s to say that you won’t find love again, who’s to say—”_

He watches, mesmerized. He’s never been to a real concert before, just loud assemblies and high school band practices that have choral kids who think they’re god’s gift to ears, despite being several octaves above a dog whistle and flat to boot. His mental images of concerts are what he’s seen on TV, in the movies—loud, flashing lights, and a stuck-up fool at the microphone.

Fai might be a fool, but he’s not the least stuck up about the energy he’s pulling from the crowd. Kurogane can feel it, feel the way people’s eyes track Fai across the stage as he walks across the stage, belting into his mic and playing guitar.

He knows that it’s not something that can be learned. He knows firsthand the sort of charming charisma Fai can carry around him—hell, it’s the entire reason he’s _here_ and not in his apartment watching YouTube videos of chefs trying to recreate commercial candy until his eyes bleed.

_“[Go, go, go with your stereo sound,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wza8nytAJk8)   
Oh it’s all around when you’re letting me down,   
I’m a supernova before I fade out   
Your love is limited, covered in mine—” _

Their last song ends with Fai’s guitar carrying the song as he belts out a chorus that has something tugging at Kurogane’s chest, the words, lighting, and guitar pressing in and around the room.

“ _Breathing, fighting, love Love...“_

The music trails off until it’s just the refrain, over and over, until it’s just Fai without the mic, and then the crowd is cheering.

“Thank you! We’ll be at our merch table for the rest of the show,” he calls out, waving as he climbs back onto the table. “Come say hi!”

He bounds off the stage and the lights go up, the crowd’s cheer tapering off into a storm of chatter. He starts towards the merch table, then pauses. Some strange part of him flinches back from heading straight there, his pride too strong to show how badly he wants to rearrange the way he sees Fai, how badly he wants to just look, just listen to his inane chatter.

It’s magic, what Fai’s just done. A magic spell, catching him in a riptide he can’t swim free of. It’s disconcerting.

He makes his way to the bar instead, ordering himself a water and then, after a brief moment of hesitation, a lemonade for Fai. He’s not comfortable drinking in situations like this, and he doesn’t quite want to be presumptuous enough to assume Fai does either.

By the time he makes it back to the merch table, Fai and the others have broken down their bit of the stage and made it to the small crowd of people.

He stands awkwardly, until he makes eye contact with Doumeki, who prods Watanuki, who then in turn nudges Fai.

Fai turns, face breaking from a subdued sort of grin to the full manic one he gets when he’s about to be extraordinarily difficult. Kurogane inwardly groans. The last time he’d seen that grin, a Bunsen burner exploded.

“Kuro-sama!” he crows, and Kurogane finds himself intensely regretting everything in his life that led him to this.

Fai darts forward and slips his hand to the crease of Kurogane’s elbow. “Oh, is that for me?”

“Uh, either that or the water,” Kurogane mutters. “Didn’t want to… be, uh… Anyway.”

Fai’s grin eases into something a bit softer as he takes the cup of lemonade from Kurogane. “Thanks, no one ever thinks to give options,” he says, only slightly teasing.

Fai tugs on his arm, pulling him towards the table. “So do you have any plans for the night? Because we ran out of voucher coupons and we need someone to help write codes!”

And so, Kurogane finds himself tucked between Doumeki and the wall, scribbling the same scrawl of numbers and letters on flyers until his palm itches from his nails and his knuckles cramp up, and then even more.

The lights dim again and the crowd subsides, flowing back towards the stage.

“Oh, that’s the opener,” Fai says. “Shall we?”

Kurogane almost wants to say no, because it’s late, he’s gotten pressed into service, been teased by Sakura, and the crowd seems even rowdier than before, but…

But Fai has his hand outstretched, still exuding that same magical charisma as before, and Kurogane finds that he doesn’t have it in himself to do more than grumble about drunk college girls and sticky floors and lack of dinner.

It’s not his scene, no, but he hopes that with enough luck, it can be.


End file.
